


Mutts are a Man's Best Friend

by waywardrenegade



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: I can't even handle it, Idiots in Love, M/M, literally these boys are so dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrenegade/pseuds/waywardrenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew Shaw is so much more than the little guy with the big mouth and quick temper, but no one can look past his scrappy reputation, albeit justly won, to see that he is just a kid trying to find his way. Well, no one except his teammate, Brandon Bollig, because he’s been there before too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutts are a Man's Best Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Oh snap, look another lame title! I'm awesome at that. I'm also really tired of making minor changes here and there to this story and not doing anything with it. Not entirely sure I like how the ending turned out but oh well. Feedback (and criticism) is always welcome. :)  
> P.S. This has my first bit of smut (because I'm a coward and always chicken out), so hopefully it doesn't suck too much. Ha, pun intended.

Mostly because of his actions in the playoffs, Andrew Shaw has become the inadvertent face of the Blackhawks, a symbol of the city he plays for. He embodies the persona of Chicago, merely a boy from a blue collar family, made to work hard for what he has, and with the scars to prove he’s earned all of it. Yet, he is so much more than the little guy with the big mouth and quick temper, but no one can look past his scrappy reputation, albeit justly won, to see that he is just a kid trying to find his way. Well, no one except his teammate, Brandon Bollig, because he’s been there before too.

Brandon completely understands the kid’s mindset from the very first day he meets him, can recognize and relate to the expression Andrew wears sometimes when he thinks no one can see. Andrew attempts to project a sort of indifferent toughness to mask the confusion underneath which causes a crease in his brow and makes him bite his lower lip unconsciously. Instead of calling him on it and risk making things awkward, Brandon watches from a distance, _because that is obviously less weird_ he tells himself stubbornly. He settles on keeping a close eye on this overgrown child over whom he feels an immediate sense of possessiveness, which later transforms into undeniable attraction, because it’s just easier that way.

He thinks maybe it was just the adrenaline and excitement of getting to play in the AHL, the hope of getting the call up to Chicago, which drew him to Andrew in the first place. It could also have been that he drew a major parallel between him and Andrew almost immediately; neither one is afraid to drop their gloves and duke it out with an opponent, and despite Andrew’s lack of mass, the kid is a hell of a fighter. It simultaneously makes Brandon feel strangely delighted and causes an inexplicable urge to take a swing at him just to see what would happen. It is right around then he realizes that this little punk, with his stupid temper and unfathomable magnetism, has gotten under his skin and doesn’t appear to be going away anytime soon.

The first time Andrew catches Brandon’s eyes lingering just a beat too long to be casual, he spits out a “Will you quit fuckin’ staring at me, Bollig? Shit’s creeping me out.” Brandon tries to have the good grace to look at least a little abashed, but modesty really isn’t in his nature. Rather than instigate the hothead further though, he turns his back without comment and goes back to debating different tequilas and their various merits with Morin and Pirri. Poor Morin keeps declaring Jose Cuervo to be “infinitely superior to absolutely everything”. Brandon silently vows to buy the kid a nice big bottle of Patron Silver and some Tylenol next time he goes to the store.

From then on, any time Andrew goes out to a party or even just for a short walk, Brandon finds dumb excuses to go with him. These range from “wouldn’t want you to get shitfaced before the game” to “I was going to go anyway, so let’s just go together”, and if Andrew reads any further into Brandon’s true motivation, he never says anything.

It becomes almost a daily routine for them: Andrew goes somewhere, snarks at Brandon something along the lines of “You’re being fucking creepy, but yeah, okay, come with if you want, weirdo”, and Brandon just does because he knows there’s no heat behind the words. It doesn’t matter where, as long as he’s with Andrew. That doesn’t mean Andrew lets him willingly though because Andrew is a mouthy shit and never makes things easy. Deep down though, Brandon gets that Andrew mouths off as a defense mechanism, intended to keep people at a distance, because he’s guilty of it as well.

Brandon really doesn’t know what it is about the mutt that draws him in and refuses to let loose its hold on him, and that worries him. Like when Andrew fights during a game, whether he starts it or not, it doesn’t really matter, Brandon wants to jump the boards and punch the other guy’s teeth down his throat, make him bleed for causing Andrew any hurt. Even though he isn’t naïve enough to realize sometimes Andrew just might need to be knocked down a few pegs for picking fights he isn’t always able to win, Brandon still has a hard time stomaching a beaten Shawzy. The whole thing is equal parts chick flick cliché and desperate as all hell.

It isn’t until after the game against Lake Erie, the bullshit one where Andrew collects his 6 game suspension for leaving the bench to take on the total asshole known as Patrick Bordeleau, that Brandon’s fierce protectiveness kicks into overdrive.

He stares mesmerized while Andrew full-on tackles Bordeleau and lands a few solid hits before the refs pull him off, though he doesn’t make it easy for them, constantly thrashing and trying to wrench himself from their grasp. Brookbank follows Shawzy’s lead, rocketing off the bench to get into the fray. Just when he thought Bordeleau couldn’t get any more stupid, he opens his fucking mouth to chirp _Brandon_ of all people, trying to get him involved; he really should consider himself lucky that Brandon doesn’t go at him just for that. Rather than engaging him, and he seriously wants to, Brandon skates over to the Monsters’ bench to chirp them for being “cheap, dirty motherfuckers”. He never claims he’s mature, okay.

The night the verdict is handed down is the first time they really hang out, just the two of them. Brandon’s nursing a beer and watching a Criminal Minds rerun on ION, having switched as soon as he saw the decision scroll across the bottom of Sports Center’s 3 second coverage of the AHL, when he gets a text from Andrew that just says “ _Fuckin pissed. Come get me asshole_.” Brandon isn’t entirely sure how he feels about being the one Andrew reaches out to and how quickly he leaps at the opportunity to be that guy for him.

Brandon drives them around for a while, giving Andrew time to cool off, windows down, Filter’s _Short Bus_ an undercurrent to the angry rant pouring out of Andrew’s mouth. It’s mostly of the “fucking Bordeleau this” and “fucking Bordeleau that” variety mixed with a hefty amount of “goddamn bullshit suspension” and “should’ve really kicked his ass”, and most of it is verbatim from Brandon’s own internal commentary.

They end up at a cozy diner just outside of Rockford whose marquee advertises “The Best Pie East of the Mississippi” (which it surprisingly delivers). Andrew tells him about growing up in Belleville, his introduction to hockey, and his family, after chirping Brandon about his “very American attachment to diners” with a sneer, of course.

Brandon learns that it was Andrew’s dad, Doug, who encouraged him to fight guys twice his size to make an impression, to let others know that “yeah, I’m small, but I can still beat the fuck out of you”. Brandon makes a mental note to buy the man a beer if he ever meets him.

Andrew allows Brandon to actually get to know him personally rather than just being another teammate whom he knows next to nothing about. It makes Brandon feel kind of warm inside in a totally _non-girly_ way when he realizes that he’s hearing things that the other guys haven’t, as far as he knows, like Andrew’s maybe starting to trust him.

“I think I’d better head out. It’s kinda late, and I gotta work off some of this energy before I end up throwing punches at strangers,” Andrew complains after finishing his second piece of apple pie sometime nearing 5 am. When he points out the time, Brandon is surprised that much time has passed; it doesn’t feel like they’ve been talking for almost five hours. He supposes that “kinda late” is the biggest understatement aside from the “I _really_ like this guy” his brain supplies sardonically.

As much as Brandon wants to say “Hey man, I get it” or “It sucks, and I’m sorry” or even “Let me come with you”, he doesn’t. When you get into the kind of headspace where Andrew is currently, he knows it’s better to be left alone with your thoughts, to bloody your knuckles on a bag rather than someone’s face, and he’s never even had to deal with the suspension like Andrew. He can only imagine having to sit out while your teammates do the work, take countless shitty hits, and you’re left looking on, unable to do a single thing. The thought alone pisses him off so much that he’s probably radiating fury strongly enough Andrew can feel it across the table. It’s not going to help the situation any, so Brandon makes a valiant effort to shake it off.

If he really thinks about it, he just doesn’t want to Shawzy to leave, especially not in the self-destructive mood he’s in. Instead he offers to drive him back to his place, which Andrew accepts gratefully since the walk back would be pretty long and cold, and it luckily gives Brandon an extra few minutes to spend with him.

It’s a while later, and Andrew’s suspension is finally over, which kind of negates Brandon’s go-to excuse of hanging out with him so he has something to do other than harass people at the gym and sulk. It seems that spending all that time together has forged a solid friendship between them, so there’s always that, Brandon thinks with a grin.

Eventually, they pay their dues in Rockford, leading the Icehogs to countless victories, racking up even more penalty minutes, and making names for themselves as both reliable players and entertaining fighters, though Andrew garners the “instigator” title, whereas Brandon gets the “tough guy” persona thrust upon him. Sooner than he would have thought, they find themselves, northbound toward Chicago, to the NHL, to the Blackhawks. His brain keeps stumbling over the part where they’re going _together_. It’s both surreal and an affirmation of all the blood and sweat they’ve shed for the Icehogs over the past season. In short, it’s fucking awesome.

Between the wins, the losses, the back and forth trips to Rockford, which, yeah, Brandon kinda doubts it every time Bowman says it isn’t punishment for all the penalty minutes he’s accumulated, time flies by. He sees less of Andrew than he’d like, still gets to defend him on-ice some nights, but mostly, he just catches flashes of Andrew’s almost deranged smile before he drops his gloves, his slumped form against his locker, and his back as he walks to his truck alone after leaving the UC. It carries on like that for a long while, Brandon looking on like a forlorn puppy while Andrew gets caught up in the whirlwind of being a hotshot, in demand, 21-year-old.

They’re at practice, a few days after their first playoff win against Minnesota, when Brandon asks Andrew to hang out with him that night because a) he really has nothing else to do and b) he is apparently masochistic when it comes to the little shit. Andrew is sufficiently smartass in his response, as if that’s anything new or unusual, but he doesn’t object to Brandon’s elegant plan of booze and video games. In fact, he’s the one who shows up with the box of Lou Malnati’s pepperoni deep dish and a scowl and mumbles something about “fucking diets can go straight to hell”.

That goes a long way to explain how they end up at Brandon’s apartment, empty beer bottles and pizza box balancing precariously atop a stack of Xbox games on the table in front of them. It might also justify why Brandon’s hand keeps sliding surreptitiously across the smooth leather of the sofa until it grasps Andrew’s calloused one gently. Alcohol never really outwardly affects him, he has his size to thank for that he supposes, but it does make him a little more brazen, a degree less inhibited.

Andrew squeezes back for a split second, and then he jerks as if he’s been shocked into action, limbs kind of flailing everywhere, before he straddles Brandon, and attacks his mouth roughly. It probably shouldn’t surprise Brandon to learn that Andrew kisses much like he does everything else, like if he doesn’t fight for it, it isn’t going to happen, like he has to earn it.

Brandon tries to get a hand on Andrew’s chest, to push him back a fraction, but Andrew lets out a low rumble of protest and keeps on being his persistent self. His teeth start worrying a spot on Brandon’s lip until he tastes blood, and his hands are tugging as best as they can at Brandon’s short hair. Basically, Brandon would be lying if he said he isn’t into it because he _so_ is.

After another minute of Andrew’s brutal assault, Brandon pulls away long enough to gasp out a broken, “Holy shit, Shawzy, what _was_ that?” His voice sounds ragged, more than a bit uneven, but he finds he honestly has zero fucks to give where that’s concerned.

“It’s called ‘making out’, Bollig. Even you can’t be that dense, right?” Andrew asks in full-blown asshole mode, his trademark smirk firmly in place.

Brandon tries (and fails) to smother the husky chuckle that tumbles out, pausing for just a breath before growling, “Watch it, mutt.” He knows the minute it falls from his lips that it’s entirely the wrong tack to take with Andrew; that it’s only going instigate. He recognizes it in the way Andrew’s eyes get a bit brighter, his pupils dilate, and his entire demeanor shifts into something borderline dangerous. It’s the expression he usually adopts before dropping gloves and swinging his fists.

“What _exactly_ am I supposed to be watching, dickhead?” Andrew whispers as he licks a trail across Brandon’s stubbled jaw before nipping impishly at his earlobe. His hands are busy rucking up Brandon’s henley, dull nails skittering across the wide expanse of muscled shoulders. Brandon definitely isn’t expecting him to latch on, _hard,_ to his bicep, leaving behind two crescent moon indents in the exact shape of Andrew’s teeth, so his yelp is totally warranted.

Primal instinct has him fisting a handful Andrew’s hair sharply, wrenching him away, and thoroughly enjoying the hiss Andrew makes in the process. The dark tufts poking between the spaces of his fingers make Brandon feel absolutely territorial. Like Andrew is his and his alone. “You _really_ don’t want to do that,” he promises gruffly, scrubbing his free hand through his own disheveled hair.

“I _really_ think I do,” Andrew mocks, as he pushes his hips into Brandon’s with a shallow thrust. “Are you gonna say no? Tell me I’ve had too much to drink, that I don’t know what I’m doing. Come on, Brandon, deny that you want this. _I dare you_ ,” he continues as he torturously ruts against Brandon, alternating between kissing his neck and biting into the soft flesh at the exposed collar of his shirt. Belatedly, Brandon wonders if there’ll be bruises, proof that this was actually a thing, so his brain won’t be able to deny it in the light of day. He kind of hopes there will be.

Brandon is literally trembling with how still he’s holding his body, not trusting himself to hold back from taking what Andrew’s so obviously offering. He desperately wants to take all of it and more, wants to flip Andrew over, pin him to the sofa with his body, to mark _him_ up some, let everyone know exactly who is responsible for the bruises that have nothing to do with hockey.

It’s not as if he hasn’t imagined something similar to that situation a thousand times, but more than that, he’s worried he might fuck it all up. He knows Andrew well enough to know that the more nervous, anxious, or uncertain he is, the mouthier he gets, and if the string of antagonistic remarks steadily pouring from him is any indication, Andrew’s pretty damn unsure about this, though his body definitely says otherwise. Brandon can feel Andrew’s dick pressing into his upper thigh, resting there hot and heavy and _holy fuck, Andrew is hard for him. Literally._

Andrew lets out a triumphant gasp when Brandon squirms beneath him, not realizing the burlier man intends to use his size to his advantage and shove Andrew aside. Brandon rearranges Shawzy so he’s sitting up, though still squashed to his side, before he meets his eyes. He wills himself not to study the beard burn lending a reddish tint to Andrew’s pale face, the way his chin is rubbed a bit raw, because if he does that, temptation is going to win out.

“Shawzy, slow down. What are we doing?” Brandon questions softly, knowing he could very well set off Andrew’s quicksilver temper if he isn’t careful. He lets his fingertips trail casually across Andrew’s bruised knuckles in an attempt to display his genuine concern.

“It’s simple, isn’t it? I want you, Bollig, and you want me, if the boner in your Levis is anything to go by. So, let’s just go for it, eh?” Andrew says as his tongue slips out to run along his bottom lip, eyes never once leaving Brandon’s. And it would be so simple to just breathe out a “ _yes”_ and have his way with Andrew, it really would, but Brandon isn’t entirely sure he can.

“Hey, can we just take it easy tonight?” Brandon mumbles into the top of Andrew’s head, strands of unruly hair tickling against his mouth. His dick is about to stage a full-fledged mutiny, but his brain tells him it’s the right thing to do. Andrew is worth being sober for, deserves much better than a sloppy, slightly drunken hookup, no matter how damn appealing it sounds.

Andrew doesn’t say anything, which Brandon totally doesn’t expect, just turns his head and presses his lips to Brandon’s, firmly and unhurriedly, before melting into his side and turning the TV on.

When the startup menu for Brandon’s Blu-ray player splashes the room with the colors of the opening for _Slap Shot_ , Andrew’s laughter reverberates off the living room walls, and he fake punches Brandon’s arm good-naturedly. “So fucking lame,” he mutters under his breath. Brandon’s grinning back before he can really give any conscious thought to what this all means.

It’s around when Coach Dunlop is arguing for the sake of his team that Brandon notices Andrew has been uncharacteristically silent for a while and looks down to see him passed out against him. He watches the rise and fall of Andrew’s chest, his steady breathing, for a few serene minutes, daring to ruffle his hair slightly.

The rush of affection and sheer fondness that follows isn’t something Brandon particularly wants to spend time analyzing though, so instead he gently detangles himself and moves Shawzy into a more comfortable position. So what if he takes the time to wedge a pillow under the mutt’s head and pull a fleece blanket over his stretched out body? Brandon dismisses it as just being a good friend because he’d _totally_ do the same for Kaner or Saader, before slumping off to bed himself.

Brandon wakes to the pungent smell of something burning and a long stream of curses that get progressively more colorful. When Andrew’s really angry, his accent gets more noticeable, and Brandon, _God help him_ , loves it. He lingers in bed longer than usual, using the extra time to work out the kinks in his neck and shoulders, just to hear Andrew spewing swear words tinged with the more obvious Canadian inflection. It’s when he hears a snarled, “Will you just fucking work already?” followed by a bit of terribly mangled French that Brandon decides to see just what Andrew’s up to.

“Mutt, what the hell are you doing? And what’s with the utter annihilation of the French language?” Brandon greets, readjusting the waistband of his pajama pants after extending his arms above his head languidly. He doesn’t miss the way Andrew’s eyes hone in on the strip of skin that’s left exposed for a brief moment when his tee rides up or the not-so-subtle way he licks his lips. As he does a quick inventory of the kitchen, it’s pretty obvious what the main issue is here, but Brandon knows hearing Shawzy explain it will be so much more entertaining.

In lieu of an immediate answer, Andrew repeatedly twists the hem of the shirt that he’s wearing like he’s embarrassed. Brandon notices belatedly that it’s one of his old ones, and, hell if that doesn’t _do_ things to him. He would never admit it, not even under oath in a court of law, but Brandon has a hell of a possessive streak when it comes to people and things he desires. Seemingly innocuous actions like sharing clothing or someone using his soap when they’ve run out of theirs, leaving them to carry Brandon’s scent all day, have always spelled trouble for him.

“I wanted pancakes and thought you might too, so uh--” Andrew breaks off to gesture helplessly at the mess scattered across the marble counters and sleek cook top.

He has a smudge of batter on his forearm, flour dusting his left cheekbone, and his expression is that of total frustration. Wearing only Brandon’s junior hockey tee, his boxers, and a headful of sleep rumpled hair, Andrew looks more vulnerable than Brandon has ever seen him.

His bare feet rest on the chilly oak floor, toes flexing unconsciously, and for some reason, that’s what hits Brandon the hardest. Obviously, he really isn’t thinking straight when he pulls Andrew to him and leans down to brush their lips together. His fingers skim over the flour on Andrew’s face, collecting the powder, before he wipes it on his pants carelessly.

“You’re something else, mutt,” Brandon mumbles into the kiss, hands coming to rest at the small of Shawzy’s back of their own volition, “But for real, why French?”

Andrew seems to contemplate his answer for a minute, then says, “S’pose I’ve been spending too much time around Crow. Did you know that fucker swears in French sometimes? Especially when he’s in the damn net.” He takes a deliberate step back from Brandon’s embrace before speaking again, smacking at him playfully with the spatula, “Now let me finish these fucking pancakes, you menace.” Both of them aren’t concerned with the batter that’s now splattered on Brandon’s shirt and cabinets.

There’s a snide remark on the tip of Brandon’s tongue about how the blackened chunks of batter stuck to the skillet aren’t _actually_ pancakes, but he bites it back in favor of making a pot of coffee and observing the proceedings.

Brandon pours his coffee, black, and then gets out a second mug for Andrew, two teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk, as Shawzy tries to get the batter to at least resemble something edible. After a few minutes of enjoying his struggle, Brandon takes pity on him and steps up behind Andrew to help. His arms snake around Andrew’s waist in a manner that’s entirely _too_ domestic if he lets himself dwell on it for long, and he places his hands over Andrew’s to overturn the blobs.

“You gotta flip them a bit sooner, or else they’ll stick and burn,” Brandon says mildly, demonstrating how to give the spatula just the right flick of the wrist. Yeah, he paid attention while his mom used to make breakfast when he was a kid. Shawzy’s hands shake infinitesimally under his, but it’s yet another thing he isn’t going to read into for fear of driving himself insane.

They eat in a companionable silence, only forks scraping across the ridiculous china plates Brandon’s sister bought him as a housewarming present and Andrew’s foot kicking softly at the table leg. As he’s finishing his last bite, Andrew locks eyes with Brandon and says quietly, “Hey, thanks. Sometimes the bar scene gets old, and don’t tell the guys I said that or I’ll deny it. This was fun, but I should probably get going though.”

“Yeah, gotta get ready for tonight, get our naps in. Should be a good game,” Brandon tells Andrew with a half-smile as he takes care of their dishes, trying to shrug off the disappointment of having to spend the time before the game by himself but understanding just the same. He doesn’t dwell on the fact that Andrew’s the one who apparently knows how to bow out gracefully, twice now if he’s keeping score, whereas Brandon would be content following him around all day. It makes him uneasy.

He spends the morning catching up on all the chores he’s neglected over the past week, vacuuming the carpet, washing practice gear that holds the unmistakable stench of a sweaty hockey player, and righting his kitchen after its introduction to Andrew Shaw.

When he decides he’s finished cleaning up, Brandon wants nothing more than to spend the evening kicked back, with a beer, watching a B-rate horror flick on Netflix, and preferably with Shawzy plastered to his side. Instead, he has to be at the UC in two hours for warm ups and the inevitable pregame speech from Tazer, so he showers and climbs back into bed for his nap.

It proceeds as he knows it would: a quick shootout drill after skating around like fools, an impromptu pickup game initiated by the rookies, yet another “Be Better” lecture from Jonny complete with the infamous dead shark eyes, and then the superstitious rituals begin.

All the guys have their quirks, _yeah Tazer, you’re totally normal and have zero oddities,_ Brandon can’t help but think, things they swear help them win games, and honestly, some of it’s downright hilarious. He recalls Soupy once told an interviewer how Seabs would eat precisely 7 Hershey’s Kisses before every game and how he used to think it was utter bullshit…until he actually witnessed it. Thinking about that kinda makes him wish he’d actually met Brian, thinks that maybe they’d have gotten along.

Duncs has his weird ass howling thing in the locker room. Sharpy throws that damn tennis ball at walls, the back of their heads, and around corners, nailing unsuspecting passersby. And wow, Brandon has some real freaks for teammates. All he does is the bizarre alternating thing between cold and hot shower to cold and hot tub that he’s done since before he can remember, and okay, yeah he’s just as fucking weird as them. But whatever, they win, so does it really matter?

It’s the playoffs, so they’re all wound tighter than usual and have been collecting penalties like a 90s kid used to collect Pokémon cards over the past few games. Tonight, Coach Q’s yelling at them to “get their shit together already” by the time the first intermission comes around. Andrew had a turn in the sin bin for a slashing call in the first, and then Tazer was chucked in within the first minute of the second for hi-sticking. The good news is they’re up two goals over the Wild, one of which earned Andrew an assist.

Ten minutes into the second period, Brandon’s being escorted to the box for a bullshit boarding call. _He was doing his goddamn job thank you very much._ And while he really just wants to hit someone or something, Brandon goes docilely with the ref, figuring it’s probably better to cooperate in the long run. Andrew meets his eyes from across the ice and silently confirms everything Brandon’s already thinking though, primarily that the refs are complete and total dipshits.

They beat the Wild 5-2, thanks to Fro’s two goals, Sharpy’s additional two in the third, and then Bicks rubs it in further when he scores an empty netter with only 11 seconds left in the game. It gives them a 2-0 lead in the series, and Brandon’s really starting to think they have a shot at going all the way, that he might actually get his name on Lord Stanley’s cup, even though it’s still pretty early on. It’s heady and all he’s ever wanted, minus the mutt with the shit-eating grin standing to his left.

The locker room is understandably rowdy after the win, the idiotic hoots of excited hockey players echoing throughout the space, only partially quieted by Jonny saying, “Good work out there, guys. Fro, Sharpy, Shazwer, Kaner, you guys were on point tonight. The rest of you clowns, you did well too, but we can always be better as a whole.” Brandon gives him credit for ignoring the annoyed eye rolls of all but one in a group of boisterous guys (because obviously Kaner’s too preoccupied gawking at his captain’s ass to be bothered with mundane things like eye rolling).

Anyway, they all know that it’s pretty much a captainly obligation, in the handbook and everything, that Jonny give them a little bit of shit after the game when what he really wants to say is, “Fuck yeah, we did it!” Tazer’s dead shark eyes compete heroically with the half-smile tugging at his stupid pouty lips though, so Brandon considers it a win in the “Make Tazer Happy” portion of the evening.

They go their separate ways after the necessary but terribly monotonous interviews, the sound of Duncs and Seabs’ conversation about the absolute genius of whoever created nachos following them out. “Seriously, that dude should have won all the awards,” Seabs states in an serious tone that brooks no further argument as the rest of them just laugh, knowing that any contradictory remark is going to get them exactly nowhere.

Andrew dawdles until the locker room is empty except for him and Brandon, the others either having made their way to The Pony for celebratory drinks or home to their wives and girlfriends, and then he asks quietly, “Brandon, do you remember that night?”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot awkwardly, and he might be a lot of things, but Andrew isn’t awkward. Cocky and smartass, sure, but he’s never awkward. His eyes are firmly fixed on the Indian head on the floor, and he’s trying to project an indifferent air, like he’s expecting Brandon to play dumb and deny it all.

Brandon doesn’t have to ask which night he means because he’s been thinking about it a lot, especially since Andrew had been lighting up the ice all night. Yeah, sometimes hockey plays turn him on. Oops. Sue him.

“Yeah, mutt, I do,” Brandon replies gruffly, taking the liberty to appreciate the sharp lines of Andrew’s arms wrapped in a tight, pale green dress shirt while Andrew continues drilling holes in the floor with a Jonny-eqsue laser stare which would make their captain proud. He studies the cuts and bruises scattered across Andrew’s face, and he finds himself wanting to run a finger along them gently as if that might make them disappear.

“I want to do it again,” states Andrew bluntly, apparently over his brief bout of awkwardness, boldly lifting his eyes to Brandon’s as he does. The dangerous spark’s there, as it almost always is with Andrew, along with something Brandon thinks might be lust, but he’s really not sure.

Because he doesn’t know how to reply, isn’t sure he actually can when it feels like someone’s emptied a gallon of maple syrup down his throat, Brandon just nods vigorously and grabs his bag, stuffing his belongings inside haphazardly.

They barely make it into Andrew’s truck before their mouths find each other and hands get tangled in the fabric of obscenely expensive suit coats. Andrew’s nibbling at Brandon’s bottom lip like last time, tugging on it in a way that makes Brandon want to take their celebration to the back seat like they’re in high school all over again. Instead, he breaks the kiss long enough to pant something that sounds vaguely like, “Just drive, Shawzy, _fuck_. Your place is closer.”

Apparently Andrew doesn’t need to be told twice or, for once, feel the need to argue because Brandon’s never seen someone buckle up, turn the ignition over, and put a vehicle in reverse quite so quickly before.

Distantly, Brandon sees flashes of the city as Andrew drives too fast through dense downtown traffic, bright halos of streetlamps, yellow blurs that vaguely resemble taxis, but his eyes keep gravitating to the slices of Andrew’s face he can make out in the dimness.

Though there are even more bruises blossoming on his pale flesh and his hair is badly mussed, he’s easily the most welcome sight Brandon’s seen all day, apart from maybe only the scoreboard declaring their hard fought win.

Without thinking about it, he lets his hand start inching across the distance between them until his fingers can curl around Andrew’s hand on the gear shift; it’s reassuring and a needed verification that this is really happening again.

Andrew’s apartment is the complete personification of him: straddling the line between teenager and adult, cluttered with an order that apparently only Andrew understands, and decorated with worn, slightly threadbare furniture when he could obviously afford better. Brandon chalks it up to a sense of nostalgia, something to remind him of home when he’s so very far away from Belleville.

It’s an eclectic mix of sleek, dark wood floors, tall windows overlooking the skyline, and an entertainment center almost overflowing with Marvel movies, countless PS3 games, and CDs of obscure bands Brandon’s only heard of because of Shawzy. There’s a simple silver photo frame on a small table at the end of the sofa, illuminated by a solitary lamp in the shape of a howling wolf; upon closer inspection, Brandon recognizes the Rockford team picture within, his arm slung casually around Andrew’s shoulders. It makes him smile.

However, Brandon only catalogues all this information because unlike he anticipates, okay fiercely _hopes_ , Andrew doesn’t try to pin him to the front door as soon as he pulls it closed behind them. He doesn’t attempt to maul Brandon with his mouth or strip off his shirt with a feeble claim of “efficiency”. What Andrew actually does is _offer him a fucking drink_.

Brandon’s debating the pros and cons of pushing Andrew down on the sofa, whether or not he would like being trapped under his full weight, manhandled a bit, _he probably would_ Brandon muses, when Andrew asks, “Hey, can I get you something to drink? I have beer and Dr. Pepper.” Brandon is torn between wanting to curl into a ball of laughter on the floor and kissing Andrew senseless. He decides the latter is the most mutually beneficial and just goes for it.

He finally breaks away for air after a few minutes of taking what Andrew gives him and manages to sputter, “Mutt, you’re _really_ something else.” Andrew looks momentarily confused, even cocks his head to the side like a puppy, which the irony there is a thing of beauty, then says, “You keep saying that as if I have any damn clue what it means. Want to fill me in, eh?”

If Brandon gives him a salacious leer before replying, it’s not entirely his fault because Andrew insists upon adding the “eh” to sentences just to further accentuate his _fucking_ Canadian accent, _and to be a little shit_ his brain supplies helpfully.

“You’re always just so…you. Like you don’t pretend to be anything, you just are. You piss me off, no doubt about that, but you also make me really happy, you know?” Brandon’s well aware that it’s probably the shittiest admission of feelings ever uttered by a person in all of time (you know, since Kaner still won’t grow a pair and just _tell_ Jonny), but words aren’t really his thing.

However, the expression on Andrew’s face tells him that it was more than sufficient, all stupidly pleased grin offset by the deepening purple around his eye and the split corner of his lip. He tries to school his face into not betraying his real emotions, kind of wipes it clean like a dry erase board, while Brandon watches amused. He knows Andrews’s not going to let him have the point that easily, so he’s not really surprised by what follows.

“Geez, Bollig. Want to pick me some wildflowers from the meadow out back and have a picnic with the fucking woodland creatures while you’re at it?” Andrew snarks, with no heat whatsoever, before hauling Brandon’s mouth back to his.

He’s crowding into Brandon’s space, standing on his toes, which Brandon knows he’d deny later, and giving back everything Brandon’s letting him have tenfold. “Andrew, shut the fuck up,” Brandon mumbles back into his neck, beard scratching at the exposed skin there.

“Come on, asshat, I want a flower crown,” growls Andrew, grinding against the thigh Brandon manages to wedge between them.

It’s suddenly the most comical thing Brandon’s ever heard, this dumbass literally humping his leg and demanding a flower crown like some warped, porno version of a Disney princess. He’s gasping for breath, for a multitude of reasons, when he wraps his arms around Andrew’s waist and flings him over his shoulder firefighter-style despite Shawzy’s useless protests that he has “fully functional legs, fuck you very much”.

“Where’s your bedroom?” he rumbles into Andrew’s side, his shirt coming untucked enough that Brandon’s fingers sneak underneath to stroke the smooth skin there. Andrew bites him hard near his ass, _and really what is with this kid and biting?_ Brandon wonders idly, before Andrew answers lowly, “Second door on the left.”

And though it might appear that Shawzy’s settling down, becoming a bit more compliant, he brings his foot up behind him and starts tapping it rhythmically against the side of Brandon’s head as he carries him as if only to be contrary. Brandon just does what anyone who has been kicked in the head for the past twenty seconds would do and tosses Andrew on the bed unceremoniously.

It’s somewhere between his internal soliloquy of _“oh shit, should we actually do this?”_ and Andrew’s grunted “Gonna just stand there all day, dickwad?” that Brandon snaps. He throws his weight on top Andrew, effectively forcing the air from Andrew’s lungs and even more smart remarks from his lips as he pants for air. His beard scrapes against Andrew’s cheek roughly before he tugs Andrew’s bottom lip between his. Andrew ruts into his thigh with absolutely no finesse for a minute before Brandon takes charge of the situation, using one large hand to hold Andrew’s wrists above his head tightly, effectively stilling him, at least momentarily.

“You’d better stop, mutt. Calm the fuck down right now,” Brandon growls viciously, putting more venom behind his words than he actually feels. It’s just that he knows Shawzy, knows how much he enjoys being tested and not given the easy route when at all possible. If he wants this as much as Brandon, he’s damn well going to have to work for it.

Andrew reacts like Brandon figured he would, instantly strains against Brandon’s vice grip on him, tries to buck him off to no avail, swearing, and calling Brandon vulgar names all the while. Soon, there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and wet splotches begin appearing across his long sleeve button down, so Brandon does what any decent person would do and shifts just enough to pop the buttons free from the stiff fabric and slip Andrew’s shirt down his arms.

“Oh hell _yes_ , Bollig. Now you’re figuring this shit out, eh? Just don’t make me wait much longer because I’m liable to get bored,” Andrew snips, a little breathless and skin flushed with exertion. Brandon doesn’t speak, just bites his way into Andrew’s mouth and presses him into the excessively soft mattress a bit more. He understands that this is evidently going to be power struggle between them, that he’s going to have to break Andrew down, only to build him up and give him what he needs, whether Andrew consciously realizes it or not.

After Brandon’s taken what he wants, he pulls back and tells Andrew to stay put as he strips his own jacket and shirt off slowly, eyes tracking Andrew as he does, daring him to move. Brandon’s more than a little surprised when Andrew actually complies, but he’ll take what he can get when it comes to the things that fall into the “Andrew not being a little shit” category, though he loves that about him.

Brandon eases himself to the edge of the bed, still sore from a couple hits he took earlier, and toes off his shoes and socks. He’s left in only his wrinkled dress slacks and a blue silk tie when an abstract image of Shawzy restrained flashes across his mind; the very idea is so unlike him that he attempts to rid himself of it by closing his eyes tightly, only to find that it’s apparently been burned into his retinas.

Since it’s obviously not going to go away of its own volition, Brandon decides he should deal with it head-on like everything else and asks quietly, “Andrew, enough with the bravado. Do you trust me?” He doesn’t look him in the eyes as he speaks, kind of fumbles with the shirt sleeves still tangled around Andrew’s arms instead as he pushes them all the way off.

The sense of trepidation he feels inside must be reflected on his face though because for once Andrew doesn’t snark back some half assed answer at that question. It’s not like after practice when Brandon asks the same thing before he wants to spar and attempts to land blows to Andrew’s body, him being the only idiot willing to help Brandon with his fighting technique on ice.

Instead Andrew takes a deep breath, whispering a barely audible, very husky “yes” on the exhale. If he was at all hesitant in his answer, Brandon would never be able to muster up the courage to follow this through, but Andrew’s given him the go ahead without his usual insolence, so he reacts.

Brandon deliberately undoes the neat Windsor of his tie, dark eyes transfixed to a spot on the headboard just to the right of Andrew, who’s now sitting up to watch him intently. He lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he’s been holding, giving Andrew time to back out if he wants to, before looping it around his wrists and pulling it taut.

Andrew finally lifts his gaze from where Brandon’s fingers meet his skin and smiles reassuringly as he says, “Brandon, I’m not breakable, and I trust you. Go ahead. Do what you want.” The acerbic tone that Brandon associates with Andrew’s hesitation in an unfamiliar situation is conspicuously absent which encourages him, as does the fact that Andrew actually used his name rather than a stupid nickname for once.

He starts gradually, taking a few minutes to run his hands up and down Andrew’s sides, to feel the bump of his fingers as they drag over each and every rib, then he traces the same path with his tongue, dipping into Andrew’s belly button and over the smattering of hair above his boxer briefs. Andrew starts making little breathy noises that he’d never admit to, but Brandon interprets them as positive sounds, a sign he’s doing right by Andrew. He’s thought about this more times than he’d like to confess, but even that hasn’t prepared him for this scenario in reality.

Brandon experimentally skims one hand over the obvious bulge in Andrew’s pants and elicits a startled gasp in response, so he applies a little more pressure on the upstroke and repeats it several times. Andrew bucks half-heartedly into his touch, still pulling at his bound wrists, as he groans, “Please, more.” That catches Brandon off guard because Shawzy may be a lot of things but polite isn’t usually one of them.

He figures that he’s teased long enough, that he’d probably be getting frustrated as hell right about now, so he slithers down the bed and undoes Andrew’s belt before mouthing at the damp fabric underneath. He can feel Andrew’s dick twitch beneath his lips, and he throws aside every thought that doesn’t pertain to Andrew’s pleasure before sucking lightly at a small wet patch he discovers.

Brandon's more than a little shocked when Andrew becomes surprisingly submissive, just lies back to see where this is going when Brandon pauses to tug the rest of his clothing off; he makes a valiant attempt not to focus on how incredibly hot this is seeing as he’s still wearing his dark dress slacks, while Andrew's almost fully exposed because if he does, this is going to be over far too quickly for either of their liking. He figures Andrew feels that it’s a slight to mankind that he can’t see every inch of Brandon’s skin because he grunts lowly and uses one foot to push at the cloth until Brandon takes the hint and removes them with a smirk.

“You know you coulda just said so, mutt. Use your words,” is all Brandon says before he lowers his head swiftly and draws Andrew’s flesh past his full lips, beard scraping against his inner thighs. It must be okay since Andrew barely manages to whimper, “Holy fuck, Brandon. _Fuck yes_ ,” before he flops back into the mound of pillows, looking totally overwhelmed.

It’s been a long time since Brandon’s done this, high school actually, because, come on, everyone went through a phase back then, right? He thinks it’s probably like riding a bike, you never really forget how, except that metaphor gets a little weird when you compare it to sucking dick but whatever. He relishes the burn when Andrew gets a bit too enthusiastic with his erratic thrusts and brushes the back of his throat, likes how Andrew’s legs wrap around his torso because his hands are preoccupied, but mostly, he enjoys being the one to make Andrew fall apart like this.

Andrew’s face is still a fraction disbelieving mixed with utter satisfaction, sweat beading at his temple and down his sternum, eyes heavy lidded. Brandon knows Andrew’s going to have beard burn on his inner thighs, and that appeals to his possessive side enough that he has to grab his own erection and tug roughly to make this last. He pulls off for a split second, just long enough to bite harshly at the sensitive skin of Andrew’s thigh, before sucking him in deeper and with purpose. His hands stroke Andrew’s abs firmly, can feel them jump and spasm, so he knows Andrew’s close even before he starts shoving insistently at Brandon’s shoulder, but Brandon has no intention of letting up on the punishing rhythm he’s established.

Andrew tries to warn him, stutters a broken, “Brandon, shit, I’m gonna—” before he comes down Brandon’s throat forcefully with a drawn out moan. Brandon just works him through it, licks away every drop thoroughly, before sitting back on his heels and grinning mischievously.

He quite enjoys the way Andrew looks thoroughly debauched, hair a mess of matted spikes and cheeks tinted pink, more than he probably should, but it’s a heady feeling that makes him absolutely giddy inside.

Taking a deep breath, Brandon carefully undoes his tie from Andrew’s wrists and gingerly rubs at the faint marks left from where he must’ve strained a bit too hard against the fabric. He really can’t stop himself from planting a gentle kiss on the inside of each wrist.

“Andrew, can I—” Brandon starts, kind of bobbing his head downward toward his painfully hard dick, but Andrew’s a few steps ahead of him and grabs a hold, jerking fast and rough. The way he’s twisting his hand is just a few degrees shy of painful, so Brandon knocks his hand away and takes over, having snuck a palmful of lotion from the bottle on Andrew’s nightstand.

Of course, Andrew never lets anything go easily, so he says lowly, “You can come on me if you want” while looking up at Brandon through his lashes. And it’s just so at odds with what he’s just said and he’s really fucking pretty and Brandon’s been wound tightly for entirely too long now that that’s all it takes before he’s groaning and painting Andrew’s lower belly with white streaks.

Brandon doesn’t possess the energy to extend common courtesy, so he falls on top of Andrew with a long groan. It’s about three seconds later when it hits him that he’s laying in a puddle of his own come, which is plastered to Andrew’s skin, and that he really just did this with _Shawzy._ Feeling a bit overwhelmed, Brandon kind of nuzzles into Shawzy’s chest, letting out a contented hum.

“Bollig, are you trying to fucking cuddle me?” Andrew grumbles, trying in vain to shove Brandon’s dead weight off himself. “Get off me, you big, gay thing.”

He feels like being a shithead back, letting Andrew have a taste of his own medicine, so Brandon licks a stripe across his collarbone and nips affectionately at the skin there. “Yeah, I’m cuddling you. Fucking deal with it, okay,” he says back between worrying Andrew’s nipples with his teeth. Since Andrew’s squirming underneath him with his dick already showing interest again, Brandon’s fairly sure he’s just complaining to hear himself talk.

They finally crawl out of Andrew’s bed a while later, throwing the filthy blankets on the floor carelessly, before stumbling toward the shower together. “Gotta save water, ya know,” remarks Shawzy with a twitch of his eye that Brandon thinks is maybe a wink or just a really shitty imitation of Kaner. Either way, it’s pretty fucking disturbing but still doesn’t stop him from initiating a rousing round of shower sex simply because he can. Brandon has a funny feeling he’s going to be doing a lot of new things for that very reason, but he honestly can't bring himself to mind.

At practice the next day, Andrew and Brandon kind of avoid each other, not that either would actually admit that that’s what was happening, but they both give the other a wide berth. Apparently it’s not as subtle as they think because Sharpy chirps, “Aw, boys. Something wrong? Shawzy, did Boller go back door without asking?” And you know what, just fuck Sharpy because he’s the absolute goddamn _worst,_ and Brandon hates him and his mostly on point chirps a little right then.

“Come on, old man. Give it up because everyone knows how much you and Burs wanted each other okay. I don’t how you ever convinced Abby that it was ever only platonic what with all the eyefucking even in interviews,” Andrew counters, punctuating his words with a quick jab to Sharpy’s ribs.

Tazer shark eyes all three of them with the exasperated look of a put upon captain before turning to Kaner and bitching him out over "not passing the puck to Bicks when he was clearly open, you little fuckwad.” Kaner looks like he’s actually basking in the attention Jonny’s bestowing upon him without regard for the actual content, but even that’s pretty damn typical anymore.

They’re all a little fucked up in the head sometimes, and, sure, Brandon might want to make Sharpy eat his own tongue on occasion and for Jonny and Kaner to bone already, for fuck’s sake, but neither one’s exclusive to him. It’s really just another day in the Blackhawks locker room, full of stupid chirps and the asspats hockey players are so seemingly fond of, yet as Brandon catches Shawzy throwing him a wayward grin, he realizes wouldn’t trade any this for the world.


End file.
